Tear You Apart
by Pluppelina
Summary: Doctor Crane is treating the Riddler and gains an unhealthy fascination. Long drabble, dark!Ed, rated for dark themes and language. Inspired by the song Tear You Apart by She Wants Revenge.


He was a patient, and patients were off limits for _that_. Yes, you could use your fear gas on them, _because no one believed a rambling maniac if he accused a doctor of something_. You could declare him paranoid, change him to another doctor and that'd be the end of that. A patient whose biggest problem was parental issues and a little hint of OCD however would be taken perfectly seriously, especially if what he accused the doctor of wasn't something as fantastic as gassing the patients in the basement but rather as plain as sexual abuse.

No, no, no. It was just a crush, it'd go away. All you had to do was ignore it and it'd go away. In the meantime, you could deflate these urges to the boy you already had, which was of course not so good for him as he could never live up to the real thing anyway. There was just something about the Nigma kid that made you want to pull him in close, kiss him, pull his hair and... No. _No_. **Off. Limits**. So you ignored it, _really_ hoping things would work out.

They didn't. Every time you saw him, the urge got greater, the need grew stronger. You wanted him so badly you could barely breathe with him in the same room. No, god, no. You couldn't not do this anymore, you _needed him_. It was Friday and it was late and you could easily slip him into your office without anyone noticing anything was out of place – anyone but _him_, that was. But you needed him, god, you needed him. You had to have him. You would have him.

Despite being dead scared of making the wrong move and screwing things up you managed to get him to walk with you to your office and sat him down in a chair once inside, but then the mere idea of having him there, breathing his scent and looking at him without a desk in between your bodies was making you so aroused you barely knew how to handle it. In the end you handcuffed him to the chair, pocketed the key, whispered some well-chosen words into his ear and slipped out to have a smoke to steady your nerves. You hadn't smoked since college, but god, this was stressful. After about fifteen minutes you felt enough like yourself to go back to him. He was gone by then. The handcuffs were lying on your desk along with a note; "You're cute when you're terrified, doc."

You couldn't think about anything else all weekend, anything but the way he smelled, the way his eyes had lingered in yours, the way he had allowed you to do all that before escaping so effortlessly. When you played with the idea of him actually _waiting for you to return_ before he decided to go it made your knees week. You spent almost all of your wake time chain smoking.

When you came back to work on Monday you sat down beside him at lunch. It wasn't strictly allowed and it earned you a few suspicious glances but you couldn't wait another full day for your first session with him; you needed to talk to him _now_. You were shaking all over as you sank down next to him but you knew all about the importance of composure so you did your very best to look like your usual self.

"I believe we need to have an extra session this afternoon," you said. He looked you over and didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. His eyes spoke plenty and what they said made you so nervous you couldn't stand the thought of eating. "Five o'clock" was all you managed before you left.

A quarter to found you standing outside of his cell taking deep breaths. You hadn't felt like this since you were a teen and even then it hadn't been this _intense_. The sheer level of your emotions was enough to make you reel. It was too much and it hadn't even begun yet. You opened the door.

You had had the full intension of bringing him back to your office, but you were thrown completely off balance and never got that far. He was lying on his bed, eyes closed, completely relaxed.

"You're late," he said lazily. You weren't. It didn't matter. You couldn't breathe. He turned to face you, his eyes burning into yours. God.

"God I want you," you admitted, closing the door behind you. When you turned back he was standing on the floor, alarmingly close to you, and he looked so smug, so knowing, you could swear he was thinking 'of course you do'. He didn't say that. Instead he just reached out for your hand, held it loosely. The sudden contact felt like a bolt of electricity and you jumped. He grinned.

"Then take me."

Oh god. _Oh god_. How was this supposed to. You didn't even. Just looking at him, an urge grew in you. He had given you the go-ahead, he could be yours, and all those ideas you had tried to repress hit you full-force as the automatic locks to their cages opened. You wanted him, wanted him so badly, wanted to do all these things to him, wanted to fuck him blind and take him home and shoot him and stuff him and mount him on the wall just so you'd never have to risk being without him. Wanted to crawl inside of him and stay there, build a nest in the pit of his stomach and rest there right where the feeling of unease starts to grow as a paranoid idea gets a hold of your brain. You wanted to go down on your knees and kiss his feet, be his slave, obey his every last wish, anything. You wanted to rip both him and yourself to shreds and sew it all back together as one being, feeling each other, knowing each other, completely. Your voice was shaking so badly when you finally spoke it was a miracle he heard the words.

"I want to fucking tear you apart."

His eyes as they met yours, not empty, merely full so full of darkness everything else was hidden from view.

"So do."


End file.
